Die Frau ohne Schatten was Strauss’s third full
operatic collaboration with the brilliant writer Hugo von Hofmannsthal,
who referred to the piece as "our Magic Flute". They
took an uncommonly long time to complete the project; Hofmannsthal first
mooted the idea of a ‘magic fairy-tale’ in 1911, but what with one thing
and another (such as the ‘Alpine Symphony’ and World War I, to
name but two!), the Viennese premiere did not take place until 1919.

Hofmannsthal’s reference to the Magic Flute is
easy to understand. Both works are essentially hymns to the institution
of marriage, and bear the subtext "Be fruitful and multiply!"
But whereas Mozart’s late masterpiece is light in its moral touch, leavened
by an almost Pythonesque humour, Die Frau seems joyless, even
leaden by comparison. Strauss used massive orchestral and vocal forces,
though in fairness one should point out that textures are often like
chamber-music in their delicacy and abundance of detail.

The story in brief: the shadowless Empress, the
eponymous ‘woman’, is the daughter of Keikobad, ruler of the
spirit world (who never appears in the opera). She has married the Emperor,
who rules the South Eastern islands. She has, however, yet to become
wholly human by developing a shadow like other mortals (a metaphor here
for becoming pregnant). Keikobad, via his Messenger, gives her
three days to find a shadow, warning her that, if she does not do so,
she will have to return to the spirit world, and her husband the Emperor
will be turned to stone.

The rest of the opera concerns the Empress’s attempts,
with the help of her wily Nurse, to obtain the shadow of a mortal
woman, the Wife of Barak, a humble dyer. Finally, she refuses
to deprive Barak’s wife of her shadow, and Keikobad, realising that
the Empress has thus demonstrated her essential humanity, relents and
removes his curse from her and the Emperor.

Die Frau is a lengthy (nigh on three and a half
hours) and involved work, which even the most ardent Strauss fan will
have to admit has its extreme longueurs. Ironically, this 19th
century Magic Flute is also in another sense the most Wagnerian
of Strauss’s operas, in the way it pursues so unremittingly its worthy
and somewhat convoluted story. Hofmannsthal was undoubtedly a brilliantly
talented writer, but he seems to have lost his sense of theatrical reality
here; there is simply toomuch plot, too many details.
The odd result is – or perhaps not so odd – that when the clinching
moment in Act III is reached, and the Emperor is released from his stone
carapace, there is a huge sense of bathos; and, fine though this performance
is, there is absolutely nothing that Georg Solti, Götz Friedrich
or the cast can do to avoid the catastrophic feeling of anti-climax
at this crucial moment. Sunk beneath the water-line.

Yet the wonder of opera, as an art form, is that, despite
fundamental structural problems like this, it can still entertain hugely
along the way. Indeed, Mozart’s Magic Flute itself has similar
deep-rooted difficulties, mainly regarding the characters of Sarastro
and the Queen of the Night, both of whom undergo radical changes during
the course of the opera (Queen of the Night from good to evil, Sarastro
from evil to good). But the sheer charm of Mozart’s music, its ceaseless
wit and inventiveness carries the day with no difficulty.

Is the same true of Die Frau ohne Schatten? The
answer is ‘not quite’; ultimately, the work, unlike Mozart’s model,
overstays its welcome, risks boring us by virtue of its convoluted,
earnestly symbolic plot. Yet there are plenty of purely musical compensations
which make it worth the effort for the committed listener/viewer. The
Emperor’s first solo appearance, as he prepares to go off hunting, features
one of Strauss’s finest ‘maestoso’ melodies; the journey of the Empress
and Nurse to the land of the humans occasions a brilliantly evocative
orchestral interlude, reminiscent of the descent into Niebelheim in
Wagner’s DasRheingold; and the duet between Barak the
dyer and his wife, separated by prison walls in Act 3, is genuinely
moving. These are just a few of the highlights which await you, if you
have the patience to endure some of the less striking passages.

What of this performance? It is magnificently conducted
by Solti, who, in his later years, had developed a profound understanding
of the pacing of an operatic score. He gives the dramatic and spectacular
aspects of the work free reign, while keeping things moving forward.
He has a splendid cast, of whom Marjana Lipovšek as the scheming Nurse
and Eva Marton as the down-trodden Wife of Barak stand out. The latter
is vocally and dramatically convincing in what is a most demanding and
lengthy role.

In the central role of the Empress, Cheryl Studer,
a fine and experienced dramatic soprano, would be much more than acceptable
if this were just an audio recording. She sings with power, intensity
and considerable expression. But this is a DVD, and her acting comes
over as wooden and ‘ham’, and her ill-advised barefoot ranging around
the stage (presumably not her idea. Ed.) only serves to emphasise that
she is - how can I put it - not small. I don’t normally have a problem
with singers who are less than sylph-like; we come to hear them sing
not speak their weight. But the production and her costumes make her
seem clumsy, which undermines the credibility of the story; the Empress
should have an other-worldly quality, with no shadow and little or no
specific gravity.

Some of the minor parts are superbly cast, e.g. Bryn
Terfel as the Spirit messenger, and Andrea Rost as the Falcon. The production
is visually arresting in the usual manner of Friedrich’s work. Lots
of hemispheres and wide, empty horizons. But he ignores the express
requirements of the text in Act 3, exhibiting the curious arrogance
or sheer carelessness of many modern producers. The curse of Keikobad
is quite clearly stated in the first minutes of the opera; referring
to the Emperor, we are told ‘Er wird zu Stein’ – ‘he will be turned
to stone’. In Act 3, this curse is carried out, and the stage directions
tell us that the Emperor appears, turned to stone, only his terrified
eyes betraying that he remains alive. What does Friedrich give us? The
Emperor inside a large ball of rock, his eyes invisible. This
sort of downright defiance of the wishes of the composer and librettist,
with no positive gains, seems sheer ignorance and conceit.

If all this sounds a bit negative, I apologise, for
this is a remarkable piece – one of operatic history’s most glorious
failures – and this DVD gives a more than fair impression of its many
heady beauties, as well as its undoubted shortcomings.

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